Free The Rapture by Liz Jensen

sport-supportive wife and three boys in their teens, who all don wetsuits and take turns to get towed across a lake at high speed at the end of a rope. I envy them of course. Perhaps I would like to be a member of their family, and experiment with disabled athletics. They told me in rehabilitation that nothing is physically unachievable if you want it enough: just read the memoir of the young rock-climber who crossed China on a hand-propelled bike after a devastating fall, or the American quadriplegic who plays a kind of wheelchair rugby called Murderball. Perhaps if I stay on the right side of Dr Sheldon-Gray he will invite me on his speedboat and I will acquire new skills. But perhaps not, once he learns that I have come to question him about Bethany Krall's incomplete dossier.
    He has his back to me as I enter. I don't see him at first because it's a large room, and he's at the very far end by the windows, at floor level. I'm not expecting that. He is in a vest and shorts, rowing on his machine. The room has recently been painted in wipe-down buttermilk: you can still smell the faint, anodyne odour.
    When I reach him I swivel my chair until our contraptions face each other, almost close enough for their metal to kiss. Or even mate and breed. My boss is veering muscularly back and forth, emitting small masculine stress-sounds like 'ungk' and 'gah', his arm-sinews pulled to the maximum. He's sweating like a rutting goat.
    'I'd like to discuss Bethany Krall,' I say. 'There's nothing in the file by Joy McConey. If she made notes, they've gone missing.'
    Apart from his fanaticism on the physical fitness front, Dr Sheldon-Gray possesses no obvious tics, and no apparent signs that he is one of the walking wounded of which my profession is largely comprised. Nevertheless the rowing machine's pace seems to slow at the mention of Bethany. I sense hers is not a name the director wishes to hear.
    'Gah,' he puffs. 'Sorry, can't stop until I've done my quota, so if you just talk and bear with me. Ungk.'
    'I'd like to see what Joy wrote.'
    'Of course you would.'
    'So may I?'
    'No. Gah.'
    'Can I ask why not?'
    He makes me wait, listening to his intimate noises, until he has done another three strokes: his eye is on his heart-rate reading, and the digital clock.
    'It would be - gah - unhelpful.'
    'Unhelpful in what way?'
    Abruptly, he stops rowing and starts rubbing at his face and neck with a towel. He looks across at me, still panting. Confidence gives a boom of volume to his voice, as though he's speaking to a crowd. He starts wiping down his arms.
    'Well, she's officially on sick leave but there's more to it than that, I'm afraid. She began to show signs of mental unbalance. The notes reflect that. So I removed them from the file.' He flips his towel over his back in a decisive, alpha-male movement.
    'I see,' I say as he fiddles with the little digital box on the rowing machine, trying to re-zero it. 'I'm sorry she's ill. I knew she was on a sabbatical, but no one told me the specifics.'
    'Well, now you know them. So. Is that all?' he asks, when the digits are fully blanked. I don't reply. Instead, I wait. And wait some more. 'I mean, it's fair enough, don't you think?' he justifies finally. I say nothing. 'If you, Gabrielle, in a state of extreme personal distress, wrote a report on a patient that reflected badly on your professionalism, you wouldn't like it to remain on record, I imagine?' His eyes meet mine. Their astonishing clarity and blueness make them look artificial, like a pair you might pick out for yourself in a glass eye shop. Given my own shaky tenure here, I can't argue with the man. 'I'd stick to working out Bethany Krall for yourself, if I were you, Gabrielle. Are you settling in well, by the way?' Without waiting for a reply he starts rubbing down his strangely hairless legs, adding: 'We must get you involved in some local stuff. Plenty going on here socially. Big charity bash coming up at the Armada. It'll be a good